


Measuring Up

by flecksofpoppy



Series: Poppy's Adventures in Night Ficcing [14]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Post-High School, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 08:17:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5912059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the hair he notices first.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Jearmin prompt: I had a massive crush on you in high school that I never told you about and then we went to college and just bumped into each other for the first time in five years and ohmygod did you get hotter</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Measuring Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kenjiandco](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kenjiandco/gifts).



It’s really the hair he notices first.

Back in high school, it was easy to hide such an awkward attraction. Even Jean knew that crushing on your tutor was a social death sentence... although Armin Arlert had friends, was a pretty cool kid... just knew a shit ton about math.

Thing was, he was about six inches shorter.

Not like, “gonna grow into himself,” but just really short. And Jean felt weird about as he got taller.

Of course, at some point, Eren—who Jean couldn’t stand in high school—pointed out just after college graduation (none of them ever strayed too far), that Jean was actually only about “five inches taller” and that, “Armin could kick your ass any day, wuss.”

Jean didn’t have the heart at the time to deny it. He also didn’t have the confidence.

There was a gap in his friendship with Armin, stretching from about the eleventh grade when Armin was his math tutor at about five feet, two inches, to the last year of college, when Armin was graduating and five feet, five inches.

He sees Armin three times in between math tutor status and college: at Eren’s graduation party (he’s quiet); his name on a dissertation paper (Jean hates academic publications about history); and then, Armin at a fucking reunion.

Really? A reunion?

It’s the hair he notices first, long but pinned up—restrained under the lights of the bar that their graduating class has chosen for them to reunite.

“Jean,” Armin Arlert says, focusing his radiant, white-toothed smile on Jean as he makes eye contact, “long time no see.”

Jean raises an eyebrow, holds his drink like he’s on his first (he’s not—he’s a little nervous), and replies, “Hey, Arlert.”

That gets a laugh, and Armin surveys him. It’s just like old times—eyes raking over him from head to toe, studying, surveying—and Jean gets a bit of a shiver that isn’t completely terrible.

“Hey, Jean,” Armin replies, repeating his first name. “So, you’ve only got me beat by a few inches.”

Jean just shrugs, trying not to look nervous.

He stares down into his glass instead, and tries not to think back on the fact that he’s never really cared about how tall Armin was, or that he was ridiculously smart and spent the weekends poring over extra credit reading than partying, or how that blond hair always looked so inviting.

How Jean has had the biggest crush on him since they first met.

“I’ve got you beat by at least five,” Jean retorts after a moment. The strain of the music in the bar announces karaoke or some other nightmare, and Jean rolls his eyes. “How fucking terrible is this?”

“What?” Armin asks, smiling a little as he tilts his head. A piece of blond hair falls out of the stupidly attractive man bun he has it in, and Jean swallows hard. “Karaoke? I figured you would’ve done it lots of times, since you’re such a big party guy.”

“That’s embarrassing, Arlert,” he replies, shaking his head. “I’ve never sang a song in my life.”

“Except that one time, in the dorms, during finals when you were worried you were gonna flunk out and you got really drunk on cheap champagne.”

Armin takes a perfunctory sip of his drink and raises a fine blond eyebrow.

He bites his lip, sets his jaw, and retorts, “Well, desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jean retorts, taking a resentful sip of his drink and squaring his shoulders.

“You know I get paid a lot of money to tell when people are lying?”

_Tch._

“Take me to dinner, Kirschstein.”

Wait.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Fuck.

Jean growls, biting his lip and looking at the floor. “Listen,” he says quietly, shaking his head, “just because you’re working for some fancy super PAC doesn’t mean I want to be up your ass.”

He flinches when he feels a hand on his shoulder—admittedly, from five inches down—and Armin replies just as softly, “That’s why I want you to take me to dinner.”

“Well...” Jean shrugs. “Um...”

“You’ve really grown into yourself, Jean.”

“Fuck,” he stammers, scowling, “you still like Indian food like you did in junior high?”

“You remember that?” Armin’s voice is strangely touched.

“Yes or no?”

“Yes.”

“All right,” Jean replies, putting his drink down, ready to evacuate the shitty bar of their reunion, “let’s go. I have just the place.”

Later, Jean finds out just how long Armin’s hair is, and how it looks splayed across a pillow like a burst of sun.

**Author's Note:**

> [I also have a tumblr.](http://flecksofpoppy.tumblr.com) c:


End file.
